YD6~38 Aditon Inc: An Enterprising tightrope walk, with Pinchukov as secretary

 

This narrative provides a personal and introspective view of the challenges faced by entrepreneurs. It depicts the internal struggles of procrastination and self-doubt, alongside external pressures. The protagonist's journey, filled with vivid descriptions and raw emotions, unfolds in a bustling city. The incorporation of their company symbolizes both their aspirations and anxieties. With humor and detail, the author portrays the relatable tightrope walk of entrepreneurship.

“63rd Drive—Rego Park,” resounds through the carriage. The windows clear, the bright station rumbling to a pause. Returning home after a weekend with Yael. I step off the Blue M line train, bedazzled, my mind to relief, carriage windows flickering a cinematic farewell to the scarce commuters on a Monday morning seated in the bright interior heading outbound, the train leaving the track behind. I veer at the end of the platform, cross paths with a trickle of people descending the stairway, as I ascend to gapping welcoming bright skies. Dwarfed by the towering brick masonry. Stepping onto the sidewalk, greeted by a retraction of commercial storefronts, a reflection of Queens Boulevard’s bustling traffic. The brick quoins by the nameplate planted on the pole: “63rd Road.”

The deserted street extending a long block, to an enterprising tightrope by the simple deed of a check for 500 dollars, mailed to the accountant, compared to the daunting task of running an enterprise, let alone starting one from scratch. Yet, with this slight gesture, the incorporation process for Aditon Inc. set in motion walking the tightrope over a dark abyssal. While the Greek contractor’s pressed metal skeleton of a 1940 truck sings, The Reise Organization’s squeeze, almost demanding payment for the status of contracting for them. I dare not reflect. ‘_Have I ever made such risky moves?_’ A last glance at my Barclay bank statement reveals $1000.00 — I dare not think further to fund plant, material, labor, and subcontractors?

I neared home, by the unique formation of cigar trees standing guard in a strip of lawn, in front of a stark, rectangular brick apartment block. Amid individual surrounding buildings, a halfway milestone on my trek before reaching the quiet stretch of conforming, yet distinct, townhouses. ‘_Home,_’ I sighed to myself. 

A forefront, etched with a bridging grillwork of steel balustrades, shields the flight of stairs leading to an upper floor facade, underscoring the balcony. Before which, I shortcut my routine homecoming: the double driveway ramp to the shadow of the balcony’s overhang, shielding the flank door from the elements. I slot the bit key through the escutcheon plate, turn, crank the door lever - sigh - hinge back the door, clearing my familiar galley kitchen.

I launch an eyesight into the cold galley kitchen after a weekend’s absence, the door - sigh - closing behind. Finding my pace, a hip kick away from the nudge of a countertop’s sharp corner, bearing the last of the dry glass cups and saucers nestled on a spread kitchen towel. In the series, cabinet top and bottom facing doors surround me. My fingers launch a Shiva’s Nataraja habitual silent door swings, reaching, a paper filter, scooped ground coffee and poured into the filter - clack, clack - close. I whirl - whoosh - tap water at the faucet. Backspin, I pour the jar of water, fill the cistern, return the jar to the hot pad, flick the percolator switch - flick - I head toward the open doorway. 

A beaten path traces through a floor littered with reference books, bringing me to the darkened screen. Leaning over the off-square backrest of a wooden kitchen chair, I press the switch, illuminating the monitor life with a green textual stream booting procedure. My fingers dance across the keyboard, as my hips roll and coil to my seat. Hooking my ankles behind the chair’s front legs, pressing my pelvic bone wedge into the angle, and leveraging on one of the chair’s back legs, I duck my knees by the table legs. I then pivot, squaring myself up to the small monitor, launching WordPerfect.

I stooped over my draft of business cards, while waiting for the confirmation that they accepted the corporate name, “Aditon Inc.” I drafted a hand’s friendly gesture, at reminding myself, leaning toward people, yet, the palm sketched, spearheading in red “projects.” Hearing, but stopping from listening to the deep throat gurgles that had begun. I remained alert for the percolator’s changing tones, the sputters, to a last chuff signaling. ‘_coffee is ready._’ 

A distant noise in the coulisse, as I’m called out of thoughtful glimpses over a city skyline of the Compaq busy with the printer crate, and the Compact Disk widespread box, busy the small table student table. I stoop over my Compaq and beyond, outside my panoramic window’s glazed panes, and the cast shade’s of the terrace’s lean-to roof the sun glows on stage, a yellow neon plasma false-reality — Aetheria at the elm of her destiny. A call to discover the peckish left and right climbing edging a creosote-dark wooden telephone poles. 

The squirrel’s acrobatics traverse from the depth of the neighbors’ aerial cable, vanishing in the top corner outside my studio’s French door. I ponder about the cable fixation on the rear facade. ‘_Where is the squirrel gone?_’ wires coming into my studio, to the back of the Panasonic cradle, with radio waves to the handset. I return to my little luminescent screen, when shrills breach the silence. My arm contorts offside, under my right elbow reaching the handset, to pressing a fist full of knuckles to my cheek, blurting out, “Hello!” 

The accountant’s voice lace with urgency. “We need to finalize the incorporation,” he pressed. “Who will be the company’s secretary? One partner must be American?”

‘I’ve heard the requirements before. . .’ I twiddled in my mind, gazing at the Compaq Portable’s blinking cursor. Jumping onto the crate, hogging Microsoft’s Bookshelf disk sitting in the CD player drawer, my lingering mind held to account. I wrench my right elbow from the Easa-Phone’s cradle, replacing the cordless handset pressed to the edge of the table, by the Okidata laser printer’s crate. The temptation for a coffee break flickers in my mind, but further delays sink into a blur of unpredictable means. The Accountant’s voice echoes in my head. “You can’t delay this any further!”

Committed to my response. “OK! I’ll attend to it.” I blurted out, but the procrastinator in me, needs a push to soar from the comfort of its lair, the well of my procrastinating during the past month. My mind throws a fish line, to hook onto a stroke of courage. While my ego simmers, my mind flickers through doubt. I press my ankle tight, press my pelvic bones into the corner of the backrest with my seat, easing the chair’s legs to press on a single leg. I swing my paired knees free from the midst of the little table’s entangling legs, releasing my fingers from staging their dance on the keyboard, to press the button blackening the screen.

My eyesight trails along equipment surfaces as I uncoil, rise to my feet, with a hip swing releasing to all fours the chair. My gaze piggybacks the pair of pillows props the headboard to the rudimentary garage walls of a peninsula to pools of darkness. Turn the wall angle, Ego lagging in fear on a map of the United States, crossed over the corners by glossy sticky tape fast. 

My Gemini and Ego in a duel. As I hesitate before the doorway, shadows a brief respite to the shower and steam my fears away. My gaze flickers offside the wall plastered with a classroom’s pictorial poster — a collage of bustling kitchens, vibrant streets, vineyards aided my assimilation into American English. My eyes on the sentinel of an upper floor door, by the silent landing, an old painted wooden handrail’s spindles of balusters descending to the last tread at my side, refreshing my mind. ‘I had asked Michael!’ But, since then, he hasn't come back to me. I’m in a quagmire of my ego. Suscitating, ‘_after all! I’m on friendly terms with Michael, and his sister?_’ I let go of the reins. The Warthog in me, fearless, assumes the gaping light, to the kitchen, casts a course dropping off Ego. 

With temptation blinkers, I step past the percolator standing on the kitchen’s worktop. Across the aisle, immersed glass coffee cups and saucers margined from the one ready for use, until I’m obliged to wash up. I walk straight across the galley kitchen to the window, portraying a tableau of leafy greens in front of the open street. My willpower holds firm as I reach the end of the worktop, leaning a shoulder with a hip kick avoiding in my rush hook the sharp corner, unlocking the flank door - sight - stepping outside - sighs - the door shut behind.

Now in top gear, doubt, and distraction suppressed, I stride with purpose up the concrete ramp beside the planter’s brick retaining wall. Anger toward Michael’s non-response. I swerve onto the sidewalk. Rounding the planter, with an enviable salad of peaceful leafy greenery. Gripping the metal handrail., I ascend the steps, my gaze fixing on the facade’s door of a throne, and a lip of the balcony, alongside its large, seated window panes.

Driven by determination, before relapsing to doubt, by the sting of feeling ignored, as a beggar. I press the calling buzzer, my eyesight darting from the solid wood painted door, to the adjacent window, to catch a wavering curtain seamed curtain, or at the reveals, but eerie still as the street behind me.

In the door crack, waxing my petite landlady’s face. Etched by the weariness of a life in the shadow of the Soviet Union. “Mrs. Pinchukov!” I greeted, “Can I speak to Michael?” 

The door yawned back, waxing a petite babushka-clad figure pacing back, to a pause. ‘_He is there._’ Her eyes waving me into the diagonal opposite and deep corner across the light-stifled upholstered lounge furniture, as Mrs. Pinchukov calls out to her son, “Moshe. . .” 

My landlady walks the door forth, shutting out the gaping daylight, ushered by a stealth hearty enterprising. But I’m focused, on Michael’s slight figure, stooped over at the far dining table head, in the diagonally opposite corner of the through-floor. Staged in the somber corner, in my approach, a backyard peeking sunlight heightens the seams of drawn curtains. Filtering light as I near, shines the youngish man, middle-eastern features. Flushing the juxtaposed door, an architectural off angle and split floor’s layout of the house.

My mind races, taking in the scene: through a pair of padded chairs, to the backrests huddled around the table in a silent audience. Careful from disturbing, shining, scattered tools and glittering fragments surround Michael, as my initial approach yielded no response. ‘_Michael,_’ I scream in my mind, with a feverish heart. A silent plea echoed in my mind. ‘_Michael, I need your help!_’  My grip tightens on the accountant’s duff-fluttering in my hand, a feline’s hunting, advancing to on the figure hunched. Nimble fingers toying with delicate toy-tools among scattered fragments of glitter — raw golden rings, half-finished necklaces, lay strewn among confetti of glitter. ‘_A jeweler — artist!_’ I think to myself, to respect his patience.

Moshe looks up, his nimble fingers pausing. I wrestle to honey my voice. “Micheal!” I exclaim. Holding his gaze, “...I need a secretary for the company. . .” 

‘_But I told you that before!_’ Needn’t cross my lips, nor did I suppress the thought. My childhood at Kyalami’s poultry farm came back to me under stress. As Michael’s eyes call. Fluttery wings in my hand, like a slaughtered bird, lands on the corner of the table. My built-up steam during the past month volatilized. The sheet of paper glides under Moshe’s unmoving eyes, to the close corner of the table. From among his tools, shining a pen pinch in Moshe’s fingers, he leans over, his eyes scanning the form. With each stroke of the pen, scribbles, line for line under a hanging silence, he gets to lift the sheet’s bottom corner, after a signature scrawl, back to my hands.

With a stress drain, I straighten with the donation, “Thanks Michael,” I manage without a stutter, turning away before buttering myself up, ‘He’s a man of few words.’ I discovered.  

From the shadows, the babushka figure emerges, meeting the sentinel of the front door. My landlady walks with the door gaping at daylight. “Thanks!” I greeted her, exchanging a smile, and left her with the door. My heart flutters, as I’m feather light on the ball of my feet. The neighborhood stretches out before me, the distant skyline a hazy silhouette. I descend my soles in a rhythm, sliding over the bullnose, down the flight of stairs. The planter’s vibrant green leaves, as my mind buzzes. Michael’s signature resolved a month of worthless stress. I step onto the sidewalk, my thoughts anchoring the portrait window, my path to my galley kitchen. 

Coming around the driveway, the door - sigh and sigh - closing behind me, save for the earlier rhythm, Shiva’s many hands - bang - above the stove cupboard doors - Bang - after, I picked a paper filter lining the percolator holder. Fetched the coffee brick, unwrapped, scooped ground coffee, poured four measures. I swirl on my feet, leaning over the sink, scrub the muck burned to the bottom of the jug. Reach for a spout of water - whoosh - the hollow crystal echoes out of the jug. Spun back heel over toe, pouring the jug of water, the plastic echoing out the percolator’s reservoir. I slipped the jug onto the heating pad - click - to a red pilot light, walking away for the gargle and the coffee odor to fill the air.

From the draining board’s widespread towel, in unison, my hands flip a glass cup and saucer to fingertip pincers of the saucer. Sidestep to grab the jug, fill the cup with a stream of nerve-calming tonic. Replacing the jug, I walk out of the galley kitchen, my beaten path through MS-DOS, dictionaries, reference books littering the floor. Leaning over the backrest, settling my coffee cup in a niche between the Panasonic phone cradle and the keyboard to the Compaq. Shifting a finger, I press the “On-Off” button, illuminating the screen, livening a WordPerfect page. Tilted shoulder, swing a hip around the backrest to coil onto the seat. My feet hook the chair’s leg, swinging my knees underneath the small table, square up to the screen, and offside grab the cup by the ear, taking a sip.

‘_It’s not all won. . ._’ A voice whispers in my frantic mind — What the laser printer ought. Spit out an envelope, printed out, with the accountant’s name and address, and my return address in the top-left corner — ‘a secretarial department set up to launch my business!_’

‘_I could have written by hand the accountant’s address, and my return address._’ I think to myself, but the allure of taming the technology pulls me towards the printer and word processor. Shaking my head, ‘_No, no, no. . ._’ Flashback, as I stretched a hand, fetch off the floor, picked an envelope from a pack of ten. Untangle myself from a twist seat, square up to my workplace, after countless trial-and-error righting the sideways printing. With a twist of a wrist, I slipped the envelope’s short end into the Okidata’s bottom paper feeder. I press Enter. The machine whirs, warms up, clanks sucking through the envelope, spills out the envelope onto the top tray. A small victory, setting up the software drivers, hyphened a department into a secretariat, launching the enterprise.

I fold Moshe’s completed form, which I slip into the printed envelope, to seal with a lick of the flap, and with a bitter tongue taste, and self-adhesive ‘forever’ stamp. Now I hesitate, placing the envelope atop the CD player box, as I’ve fallen back into an achiever’s mindset, my wishes falling into place with puzzling pieces.

‘_You’re wasting yourself!_’ I said to myself, as Aetheria's subtle message funneled, filtering my ambitious enterprise, down to frustration. I swipe the envelope and head outside. Crossing the driveway to the sidewalk, the distant blue mailbox beckons on the far corner of the junction.  Clang - the envelope disappears with the self-closing lid, My duty fulfilled, I head to the grocery store, feeling feather-light on my feet.